Hi Sarah, and everyone,
Here's a poem I worked on for a while. The thought of what it's like being turned to stone came to me one day but I turned it into a stove instead. So i found an image close to the type of stove I pictured. Hopefully one of the links works.
Turned to stove
Turned to stove instead of stone,
older model made of bone,
shelf and pipe over throne,
peach and tan into golden tone.
Burning lit the molten shop,
the piney spices measure pot.
Wreath of fire crowning top,
scorching iron town it's got.
Conscious kettle gleaming round,
stirring strikes its bony sound.
Softest handles mittens found,
steam uplifted, aroma drowned.
Steep uncovered the fitting dome,
boiling contents whistling own,
eyes and ears of the grown
bringing together people home.